Hurt
by guineapiggie
Summary: A fic based on the song "Hurt" by Johnny Cash, because it seems to be made for post-Reichenbach-feels. Written from Sherlock's POV.


**Hurt -**Johnny Cash

**Disclaimer:** I own neither Sherlock nor the song (nor Johnny Cash but I think that's obvious).

**_*A/N* I thought there would be millions of songfics about this song because this is, like, perfect for Reichenbach, but there wasn't a single one! So I decided to write one myself. Maybe you should listen to the song while you read it, especially if you've never heard it before._**

**_I hope you like it, if you do so, pray tell me, and if you don't, do tell me why not ;)_**

* * *

_I_ _**hurt myself today to see if I still feel**_

Emotions, yes, definitely. A blunt sting in his chest made breathing astonishingly difficult. A mixture of pain and guilt that he was starting to get used to, but watching this had brought the feelings to a whole new level.

Why had he come here in the first place?

_**I focus on the pain, the only thing that's real**_

He exhaled slowly and retreated a little further behind the tree from behind which he was watching his own funeral. He knew very well why he had come. It hurt, but he had needed to see this to know flight was inevitable.

Seeing how John Watson stood in front of the tiny funeral party, talking in incomplete sentences and with a breaking voice, swaying ever so slightly on the spot as if he was about to faint...  
How Mrs Hudson, in her best dress, sobbed quietly as she walked up to the grave...  
How Greg Lestrade ran his hands over his face every two minutes to conceal he was crying (it was so painfully obvious that it almost made Sherlock smile)…  
How Molly Hooper tried to say a few comforting words when she stood next to John at the open grave, but failed to utter a single syllable...

_T__**he needle tears a hole, the old familiar sting**_

He had to go and he had to put them all through it, but it was surprisingly difficult. Mycroft, who stood a small distance away from the others, deep in thought and tired, looked just like he had when their mother had died, or at their father's funeral. But, Sherlock was fairly certain he had not fooled his brother. Mycroft was too clever for that.

Molly knew, too - after all, she had helped him. He'd sneaked out of the morgue as soon as nobody was watching anymore, leaving a short note for her with an emergency contact, the pledge not to contact him unless all hell broke loose around her and the reminder of her promise to never speak again of what she had done. She seemed miserable, too, though. He guessed she felt guilty about making them sad, which was stupid because it was his fault and not hers, but she was ever so sentimental. They all were.

_**Try to kill it all away, but I remember everything**_

_"Shut up, Sherlock, shut up, the first time we met...the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, eh?"_

He could still see John standing there, craning his neck to get a better sight of him on the rooftop, denying everything.

_"Leave a note _when_?"_

No need to close his eyes to see him making his way through the crowd.

_"I'm a doctor, let me come through. Let me come through, please… he's my friend…"_

Pale face, unseeing eyes, blood on his hands. Kneeling on the pavement.

_"Jesus...God, no…"_

Sherlock took another unsteady breath and walked away.

_**What have I become, my sweetest friend?**_

He was going to commit several murders and he did not feel anything. No guilt, no fear, no pleasure.

Good. Finally alone again, no stupid, sentimental feelings, just a clear mind. Clear, cold and very, very lonely.

_**Everyone I know goes away in the end**_

And find those bastards he would. They would pay for their job choice and if it was the last thing he did.

_**And you could have it all, my empire of dirt**_

**Suicide of a fake genius. **Well, he'd give that away happily. Wasn't worth a penny anyway. _Go on, you have it! _he wanted to shout. Whoever wants it, come and take it!

_**I will let you down, I will make you hurt**_

John's voice from below, shouting his name. Nobody had ever made so much noise when addressing him. No one had ever cared enough. _I am so very sorry, John. _He hadn't been allowed to say that. It might have ruined everything.

~o~o~o~

_**I wear this crown of thorns upon my liars chair**_

"One more thing, one more miracle, for me, Sherlock...don't be-", Johns voice faltered, "_dead._"

Sherlock began to wonder whether this was the punishment life had chosen for him, to always be there in time to hear them say things like that. Things that broke his, according to what he said a year ago, according to what he had actually _believed _himself two years ago, non-existent heart.

_**Full of broken thoughts that I cannot repair**_

"Just...stop it. Stop..._this._"

_Oh, John, you don't deserve this._

_**Beneath the stains of time the feelings disappear**_

True, it didn't feel as bad as it had when he had stood on the rooftop, with John's horrified, pleading voice still in his ears even though his phone already lay half-shattered on the concrete.

His heart had never hammered so fast. So loud it was painful.

_**You are someone else, I am still right here**_

He watched his friend across the graveyard as he gave the grave a nod, a gesture of honour. The soldier was limping again. His masklike expression reminded Sherlock more of himself than of the John Watson he knew and the shadows underneath his eyes were still there after all this time.

But what was even worse was the way he clenched his left hand just like he had done when they met for the first time.

~o~o~o~

_**If I could start again, a million miles away**_

_"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine."_

_"Er, here, use mine."_

_**I would keep myself,**_

_"You go, I'm busy."_

_**I would find a way**_

_"Nobody could be that clever."_

_"You could."_


End file.
